Chapter Two Another Door Opens
Chapter Two
Another Door Opens
Griffin
A woman is sitting next to me at crotch level. I must be dreaming, because that same petite blonde definitely has her hand shoved up the ass end of Bernie Bird.
“Who are you?” Bernie says—no, she says.
I’ve had a lot of weird dreams the past two years while drifting in and out of consciousness with the TV on and my screaming daughter in my arms, unable to sleep through the night.
One time, I dreamed I was onstage with my guitar, but it was Ava wailing into the mic.
Another time, my bandmates took us out for drinks, except the shot glasses were small bottles of milk.
But I’ve never dreamed about this woman.
Her long lashes catch on blond bangs, pressed down by the headset looped around her forehead. A dimple rests in the corner of her lips as they crook into a gentle smile.
“I didn’t—” I start to say to her, but the woman averts her eyes and refocuses her attention to a monitor on the floor.
I follow her gaze to the screen. The monitor displays an exact visual of our awkward situation: my face glaring off-camera at the floor below and, beside me, Bernie Bird, staring my way with expectant raised eyebrows. My heart plummets.
“Ahem,” Bernie says. She says. I watch the woman’s lips move as her hand flexes and opens his beak, but a squawking voice asks into her head mic, “Mr. Harvey?”
I finally look up, trailing the length of her coverall sleeve until it disappears underneath the slack fabric coated in blue feathers. Where her hand should be, a bird stares at me with blank circular eyes.
“You seem distracted,” Bernie Bird continues with a slight squawk.
Cue audience laughter. I don’t join in. Nerves bubble up my chest, to my cheeks and the top of my head, boiling over and dripping heat down my spine like lava.
I’m not dreaming.
I grit my jaw. “I shouldn’t be here.”
I was distracted. I got a text from my nanny about Ava and walked a few steps too far, completely ignoring Jimmy’s hissed whispers of “Griffin!” before I landed smack-dab under this spotlight. I’ve made a lot of missteps as a sleep-deprived dad, but this takes the cake.
“Oh boy. Well, this is uncomfortable then,” Bernie says in the silence, tapping his fingers against his round stomach.
More laughter erupts from everyone but me.
“Right there with you, Bernie.”
He bounces in place, sending small dust motes from his feathers sparkling under the stage lights. “Wait, wait, Griffin Harvey knows Bernie Bird?” His feathery hand points to himself.
Christ.
Of course I know Bernie Bird. What person born in the ’90s doesn’t?
I spent more afternoons with him and the Birds on the Block crew than I did with my own parents.
Birds followed me into my adult life too.
It was the only show that calmed Ava at night before it got unceremoniously ripped from streaming platforms six months ago.
Seeing Bernie beyond the television’s glow in my dark living room almost feels like talking to a celebrity.
I glance again at the hands stuck inside him.
A very violated celebrity.
Poor guy.
We spent many long nights together, and here we are again. Both embarrassed. Both humiliated.
I look behind me, searching for someone—anyone—to drag me off this damn stage.
My manager, Jimmy, doesn’t budge. We’ve always functioned like that one law of motion. For every one of my scowls, he has the equal and opposite reaction: a beaming grin. And right now, every single crooked tooth shines back at me as he gives two giddy thumbs-up.
A soft feather brushes my arm. I whip my head back to Bernie. His hand jerks away, and he ruffles a shoulder in a makeshift shiver. The audience laughs again.
Bernie leans close. “It’s okay to be scared on television.”
“I’m not scared,” I counter. The words bite because he shakes again. More audience laughter.
I’m not scared. I’m irritated that I got myself into this mess by not paying attention. This show is supposed to be my final television appearance for a few months—easy does it, then we’re home—but now…I’m talking to a damn bird.
“Sometimes when I’m scared,” Bernie Bird muses—good lord, can we not—“I close my eyes and think really hard about somewhere else I’d like to be. Where would you like to be?”
I’d like to be at home with my daughter, singing her bedtime music. Hell, I’d like to be sitting with my guitar on my knees, writing my next album. That second one’s a distant fantasy, though. I haven’t written new material in almost a year.
Instead, I’m here. With a puppet telling me to close my eyes.
I look into Bernie’s round Ping-Pong balls and grunt, “Can you even close your eyes?”
His feathered hand reaches up and frantically pats his eyeballs. The beak contorts, squishing his face in disappointment. The audience notices his lack of eyelids at the same time he does. Laughter explodes through the studio. It only spikes my heart rate higher.
“It’s funny,” Bernie says, “Nobody has ever noticed that before.”
“Noticed what?”
“Y’know,” he says, gesturing to the eyeballs again, fanning his fingers. “That my eyes can’t close.”
“You don’t know you’re a puppet?” I deadpan.
He makes another grimace at the audience.
“You don’t know you’re difficult to interview?” he shoots back with a squawk. The audience erupts into laughs. My chest tightens.
“Fair enough,” I answer truthfully.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m back on the promotional circuit.
Griffin “Does He Even Want to Be Here?” Harvey.
Griffin “Did He Really Just Say That?” Harvey.
So-called “heartthrob” Griffin Harvey. The musician who inspires thoughtful questions such as “Single and looking for love anytime soon, Griffin?”
“That’s none of your goddamn business, is it?” I answered.
That particular interview went viral. Because of course it did. I might normally feel bad about snapping, but…well, that reporter had shitty timing.
Bernie clears his throat. “All right, Fin…Can I call you that? Fin?” At my silence, he adds, “Okay, how about Griffy?” He peers at me. “Can I use Griffy?”
I grunt out, “Sure.”
“Right, so Griffy, how about we fix your interview skills, hmm? We’re gonna try a couple things, okay? I’m gonna make you”—he pokes my chest with his finger—“laugh.”
I lift an eyebrow. The audience chuckles at my lack of response.
“Okay, okay,” he continues. “Ahem. Knock, knock.”
“Who’s there?”
Bernie immediately looks taken aback, placing one feathered hand to his chest. “You’re not gonna answer the door for me?”
“All right,” I say slowly. “I open the door.”
Bernie huffs out a breath. “You’re doing it all wrong.” He mimes opening a door instead of simply announcing it, like I did. His palm makes a ta-da motion. “There. Like that.”
“Door’s open, then.”
“No, no, no. Let’s start over.” He mimes shutting it closed, shaking his head in a fluster.
I exhale. The walls start to tilt as my fingers begin to twitch.
I look down at the floor to find something that won’t move.
A landing place—a place to stick. It’s worked for me over the years.
A person in an audience. A piece of lint on a stage.
But instead of finding something steady, a feeling like a drumstick striking a cymbal radiates through my chest. Because there is no floor beneath me—just green eyes staring back.
The woman.
I forgot she was puppeteering Bernie. Her wide eyes sparkle like emeralds under studio lighting.
No floor. But still steady. Grounding.
She blinks at me in confusion. I notice familiar etchings under her eyes, the same dark lines that stare back at me in the mirror. She’s tired. And suddenly it hits me, what the hell we’re doing.
This isn’t a rude reporter pushing into my personal life. This isn’t even a bird. This is a woman with a puppet on her arm, trying her best to play pretend for the joy of others. And I am being the biggest asshole.
I may not have my shit together, but this woman is depending on me. Just like Jimmy, my bandmates, and Ava.
Get it together, Griffin.
I clench my fists, straighten my posture, and meet eyes with Bernie Bird again.
“Okay, let’s start over,” I announce. My heart is pounding, and I want nothing more than to go home. But I’m here.
I mime jerking open the imaginary door myself. There’s a small moment of pause, but then Bernie jumps forward and shuts the door.
I open it again.
He shuts it.
I open it.
The audience hesitantly starts laughing again.
“You can’t just slam the door in my face,” I fake argue.
“And why not?” he asks.
“Because it’s rude.”
More gradual laughter.
“I’m not rude,” he says. “You’re rude.”
“I’ll try not to be. Now, let’s do this.”
“Do what?”
“Answer the door, Bernie.”
“What door?”
“The door.” I open it.
The bird is quiet. The audience waits with bated breath.
Finally, he leans forward and whispers, “You know there isn’t a door here, right?”
This time the audience bursts into cackles, and I bark out a short laugh, too, the noise odd and uncomfortable.
Bernie set me up. Well, she did.
I glance down at the woman by my feet. She’s looking up at me with a beaming smile. Flushed cheeks and twinkling eyes. Pure joy.
The cymbal in my chest rings out again.
Music starts. Saxophones, drums, jazz.
Suddenly, the host shimmies beside us into the tight space behind the partition, cheesing for the camera.
“Everybody, Bernie Bird and Griffin Harvey!”
The crowd claps like crazy. My nerves are shot. Everything is numb. Offstage, Jimmy is whistling. I can feel the phone in my pocket buzzing.
Despite it all, I can’t help but steal one final look at the woman hidden from the audience behind the partition. She’s grinning down at the monitor—at the television showing me, the host, and the bird.
The corners of my lips rise at the sight. Her proud smile is contagious. I bet she’s basking in the energy of a good performance—the creation of something new. I understand that feeling. God, I miss that feeling.
I look at the monitor again.
Me and Bernie.
A juxtaposition of cobalt blue feathers and a goofy open-beaked grin beside my long brown hair and furrowed brow.
Deep in my gut, I have a feeling this won’t be the last time I see us together.